


Tacet

by poppetawoppet, SomethingIncorporeal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Audio Format: Streaming, Character Study, Community: pod_together, Download Available, Girl Sherlock, Other, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes, Suicidal Thoughts, and really loves metaphors, in which poppet gets deep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7450192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Study in Pink, from the perspective of ace!girl!Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tacet

**Author's Note:**

> “Tacet”  
> (verb MUSIC)  
> 3rd person present: tacet  
> 1 (as a direction) indicating that a voice or instrument is silent.

Cover Art provided by SomethingIncorporeal.

| 

## Tacet 

  


**Author:** Poppetawoppet  
  
**Reader:** SomethingIncorporeal  
  
**Fandom:** Sherlock  
  
**Rating:** General Audiences  
  
**Warnings:** Brief non-specific suicidal ideation.  
  
**Summary:** A Study in Pink, from the perspective of ace!girl!Sherlock.  
  
**Music:** Quiet, Matilda the Musical  


## Streaming Audio

  
  
  
[MP3](http://www.somethingincorporeal.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/Tacet.mp3) | **Size:** 8.3 MB | **Duration:** 11.19  

  
---|---  
  
 

 

Black door. Maroon awning. Taxi, idling around the corner.

Odd numbers. They always come in odd numbers. Usually threes. She’s never questioned it, just processed the information as it comes to her.

Sherlock blinks, and looks around. The information never stops.

Black door. Maroon awning. Taxi, not on duty, but still running.

She shakes her head. She’s early. Well, actually she told John to meet her here half an hour later than she would to give herself time to process.

Black door.

It needs repainting and the B is slightly tarnished. Mrs Hudson doesn’t polish it, it reminds her of silver. Silver topped cane, old jeans and a cardigan. The man gets in the cab. He must have called ahead as he moves slowly.

Maroon awning.

The same three customers come this way every day. She’s a banker, the tall one is her boyfriend, and the other girl is the banker’s ex-girlfriend. It’s the way she leans into the banker, biting her lip as she tries not to look too deeply.

Taxi cab, pulling up to the curb.

John gets out. He’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday.

_Doesn’t have a lot of clothes, not used to wearing anything but his uniform._

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock says, “I get a discount from the landlady.”

“Price isn’t the concern. Stairs are.”

“You’ll do fine.”

They go in. Inside is easier.

Stairs. Dust. Nothing to solve.

John climbs the stairs behind her, just as easily as Sherlock thought he would.

“Anyway, my last five flatmates have been less than accommodating, but Mike tells me you mostly keep to yourself, which suits me just fine.”

“Five?” John says

Sherlock doesn’t expand on her previous statement. Her last flatmate, Neville, couldn’t handle her organization system. She spent almost two years perfecting it, she wasn’t going to change it for someone who wore plaid socks with pinstripe pants.

“Now Mrs. Hudson will invite you to tea, I must warn you that if you do go, milk and sugar, even if you normally do not. She likes her tea strong.”

John looks around, his face impassive.

“I suppose you know exactly where everything is,” he says.

Books. Skull. Flatmate.

Sherlock nods, “Yes, in fact I do.”

For the first time in their short acquaintance, John smiles.

*

Suitcase. Dumpster. John.

All she sees is the noise. Sherlock thinks faster than she understands. She’s in a dumpster, pink suitcase in hand before she realizes she didn’t say goodbye, and halfway back to Baker Street before she remembers that she left John.

She supposes she should apologize, but by the time he gets back to the flat, that’s already been drowned out by something new. She understands, somewhere that John is mad, and she is wrong, but the page has already turned and all the notes are different.

The beep of the text, the strike of the match, silverware softly set on the table.

“Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend? I mean, whatever it is, it’s all fine.”

She says something about being married to her work, and brushes John off. Sherlock isn’t about to go into depth about her sex life. Not here and now. (Her non-sex life, really, but explaining exactly where she fell on the asexual spectrum would take more time than she plans to stay here.)

Break lights. The beep of a horn. An engine, idling.

They follow the map in her head, turning left and right and up and down stairs until she’s not quite sure where she is. All for an American, just coming into town. Then running again as the police look their way. 

Police in the flat. John in the chair. Mrs Hudson at the door.

“There’s a cab in the street for Sherlock.”

The noise builds into a picture, and she can almost see what’s building. She walks down the stairs.

Sometimes, all she sees is the noise, and she talks before she thinks, and moves before she should, and she’s just clever enough most times to get out, and most times people already think her terrible, so the words she doesn’t always intend to say don’t mean anything to them anyway. If only it would quiet for a moment, she could decide what to do.

An idling engine. The man leaning against the cab. The click of the seatbelt.

Sometimes, the noise is so loud, she doesn’t see a thing.

*

The smooth wood beneath her hands. The slight scratch of wool at her neck. The pill between her fingers.

She looks at it, the smooth capsule whispering against her fingertips. The killer, the motive, that doesn’t matter now. The thought of death, resting between her thumb and index finger, that is important.

Will there be anything waiting for her, no matter what pill she holds? Is there another side? Who would even really miss her if she is gone?

Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Mycroft. 

She runs her other hand down the table, hoping to find a knot, a flaw somewhere. She wants to taste the pill on her tongue, and part of her wants it to be the wrong one, just to see if there is something else, to see if it ever really stops.

The crack of a gun. Red spreading on a shirt. A name she does not know.

Sherlock pulls the orange blanket around her, and half listens to Lestrade. She’s still analyzing the bullet hole in the window, the timing of the shot, and occasionally putting her hand over her pocket, where the pill still sits.

“Lucky timing, whoever that was. Wonder if the cabbie had any enemies,” Lestrade says.

Sherlock looks up. “It would have taken a crack shot. Possibly military or police. Older I’d say, since there was only one shot fired—“

John at the edge of the crime scene. Hands behind his back. Smile on his face.

“No,” she says. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Sherlock shakes her head, and for once, does not say what she’s thinking. She brushes off Lestrade and walks over to John.

“Nice shot.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches. “No idea what you mean.”

“You just killed a man.”

“Not a very nice one.”

Sherlock turns, and begins to walk away. John matches his steps to hers.

“I’m not a damsel in distress you know,” Sherlock says.

“I know. But if I’m going to be working with you, you must tell me things. If you tell me things, I won’t have to come to your rescue. I’ll already be there.”

Sherlock turns and holds out her hand. “I’ll try.”

A quiet cough. The warmth of his hand. Grey eyes locked on hers. A smile that says he knows better. 

For a moment, quiet.


End file.
